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i.
on some highway or another between seattle and baltimore, fairwood’s car breaks down.
fae gets out, kicks the door closed with one foot, rubs the back of faer neck as fae crouches down to check the tires. behind faem, the bushes rustle, grass crunching as someone steps forward.
fae turns.
(a smile, a wave, a drag back to a circle, and then—)
fairwood steps back into the car. taps the dashboard twice, for good luck. tugs down the knotted rosary on the mirror and throws it out the window.
it works like it never broke down at all.
fae drives.
ii.
fairwood is five foot six inches, prematurely going grey, and only has one living family member fae still talks to. fae joined blaseball season twenty, seattle garages, faxed in for betsy, out for mcdowell, and back in for arturo, and partied once in season twenty-two.
the crabs have no idea who fae is.
the revelation takes fae aback. fae examines it carefully, like it’s a blessing, or a curse, or like fae can’t decide between the two.
there’s a whole siesta before the crabs will play the garages, again.
fae ties faer hair up and files it away for later.
iii.
“i’m allergic to steel,” fae tells the crabs, “it gives me- minor burns, of sorts, to handle directly.”
monty gives faem a glance, a smile playing on her lips as she listens. fae isn’t stupid—fae knows what she is, and what she’s bound to, and all the other little risks that came with being traded to baltimore. fae’s not very concerned about it, really
the crabs mark down faer “allergy,” and fae takes a seat on the tile floor to listen to the rest of the team chat, strategize. after a moment, monty joins faer, that same smile still visible.
iv.
“you have good timing,” monty says, offhand, while fae’s eyes are fixed on the bay. she still hasn’t lost that half-smile—fae’s starting to register it as a threat. “there was an alternation blessing, right before you arrived. any differences can be chalked up to that.”
“there was?” and then fae stops, smiles back. “suppose that was what all the… rumbling was about, maybe.”
the rumbling of the car, of course. a “maybe” makes everything a little easier. monty picks up the echo of how kennedy had described it, and her grin gets a touch wider.
“you should visit, sometime.”
“maybe.”
v.
“tot!”
fairwood stops, hand on the door to the locker room, listening. “you act like i don’t visit every siesta,” comes the flat response, and fae hisses, low in faer throat and inhuman.
composes faerself. walks right in.
“tot clark,” fae greets. tot hums, looks faer up and down. “alternation didn’t do much! or so i’ve noticed, anyway. could you fill me in?”
ze has a hint of the same look monty gets looking at faer in hir eyes. says nothing, though, to the other crabs. just nods. “anytime.”
fae smiles, thin. fae doesn’t have the energy for much else.
vi.
“what do you need to know?”
it’s odd phrasing. fairwood leans forward on their elbows, one eyebrow raised at tot where ze sits across from faer. “well, i remember most of the seasons i’ve played.”
“hm. about fairwood.”
fae leans back. smiles. doesn’t let the hint of shock show anywhere on faer face. “i know everything about me,” fae says, careful, “do you mean the old one?”
ze almost smiles back, a shift of the bandages around hir mouth, ever so slight. “you could say that.”
“i could, couldn’t i?” a pause. a tilt of faer head. “tell me everything.”
vii.
of everything, the carcinization is what catches faer off the most.
it’s a hint of chitin, on faer back. monty laughs when fae brings it up, and the roses laugh with her. she’s not in her armor, but instead in the flesh of a gardener, playing pretend.
“don’t worry too hard.”
“too hard?”
“well. do you think you would’ve gotten acclimated to here this fast?”
fairwood peels faerself open, looks inside. the answer is no, not really, not until next season. fae grimaces.
“thought so.”
“i don’t care,” fae retorts, kneejerk, surprised when it doesn’t burn faer mouth.
monty grins.
viii.
the faded grey-brown of fairwood’s hair is getting old. fae stands in front of the mirror with a box of bleach and a box of purple hair dye and stares.
fairwood patchwork, pitcher for the seattle garages, thought of faer hair as a point of pride. made faem look older, even though fae had been born around season ten when all faer teammates had been around for decades longer.
fairwood patchwork, batter for the baltimore crabs, isn’t a huge fan. when the job’s over, fae stares, swings faer head, watches strands tilt from side to side.
it’s perfect. it’s faers.
ix.
batting practice goes surprisingly well.
that’s not to say fairwood’s good at batting, no. fae barely hits the ball once, but when fae does, fae makes it to first and steals all the bases in one go.
they’re all going a little easy on each other, and fae can’t take the performance fully to heart, but there’s a little bit of pride there, anyway. kennedy tells faem that stealing’s the main crab trait. finn claps. fae catches flickering ghosts in the corners of faer vision.
the crabitat has things bigger than faer, haunting it, always has. fae finds it comforting.
x.
“you took someone’s name today,” monty comments. fairwood keeps faer eyes on the roses, the way they move. “in my garden? really?”
“it was an easy catch. am i not suppose to introduce myself to regulars?”
“not if you’re going to be doing that,” she chastises, amused. “have you forgotten this is my garden?”
“no.” fae reaches forward to flick at one, and it wraps itself around faer finger in an instant, thorns digging into skin. “i’ll keep to the crabitat, then.”
“oh, you don’t want to do
that,
either.”
“where, then?”
“isn’t that for you to decide?”
“is it?”
xi.
it feels like all of baltimore’s a court fae’s walked into. like every step on concrete is walking over someone’s grave-turned-person, like every stolen base in the crabitat is fulfilling a legacy. based on its history, any and all of those might be true. fairwood fixes faer eyes on the water.
fae’s never sailed a boat, doesn’t know how. fae could steal someone that did, at least until the season starts. (and then fae would have to go back to fairwood patchwork, batter for the crabs, bound and tied to blaseball—)
fairwood grabs faer keys and gets in faer car.
xii.
on some hallway or another between seattle and baltimore, fairwood stops faer car.
the half-worn imprint in the grass between mushrooms on the strip of land between pavement has bright-white, wilting dandelions where hair would be. fae doesn’t step into the circle.
“how’s it treating you?” the wind whistles, slow. there’s a storm, coming. “hope it’s well. baltimore’s treating me well.”
faer hair brushes against faer back. fae smiles, with all faer too-sharp teeth. “you’re not a very important person, you know. neither am i, now.”
another whistle.
“i think that’s okay.”
fairwood steps back into faer car.
fae drives.